


Chances

by wtfrenchtoast



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Marriage, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfrenchtoast/pseuds/wtfrenchtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff are joined in holy matrimony in the back of a Quinjet, covered in ash and blood and concrete dust, as they outrun the mushroom cloud of a nuclear strike. </p>
<p>Or, it was their day exactly as they’d imagined it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chances

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, of course. Song is by Five for Fighting.

_Chances are when said and done_

_Who’ll be the lucky ones who make it all the way_

 

“Okay, you’re dripping on the vows. Can you not drip on the vows?”

 

“It’s a head wound, Nat, it’s not like I can just slap on a Band-Aid and call it a day.”

 

“Right, okay, but it’s just superficial and now, look at that, you’re smearing the ink. I can’t read anything after I talk about agreeing to disagree about Kevin Smith movies. It just doesn’t flow right if I have to skip over that part.”

 

“Are you seriously telling me you only have the one copy? I’m shocked and appalled.”

 

“Where do you expect me to keep a second one in this suit, Barton? Little low on cargo room, if you haven’t noticed.”

 

“Oh, I’ve noticed. What about back here? You could tuck it under this. Like a dollar bill on a strip – ow! Need I remind you, head wound here!”

 

“Yes, how terrible, it’s amazing you’ve survived. You’re obviously one foot in the grave. Cap, you ready? Before Clint’s papercut sends him on to the big hawk’s nest in the sky.”

 

“Think about it, though, it’d really legitimize the ‘widow’ in ‘Black Widow.’”

 

“Charming. Cap?”

 

Steve Rogers nods tiredly, and calls to the cockpit, “Stark! You good?”

 

“Good as we’re gonna get,” Tony answers tensely. He’s gripping the controls furiously, eyes never leaving the wide expanse of cloudy sky ahead.

 

An explosion from beneath them rocks the Quinjet hard, and the occupants scrabble for anything nailed down to prevent being tossed like rag dolls. “Tony, you better take us up another five thousand feet!” Steve yells to the pilot. “We can outrun the blast but I want us nowhere near the top of that cloud!”

 

Tony salutes dramatically and they feel the floor shift as they drive further upward into the atmosphere. A wedding, right on the tails of a nuclear detonation. What is my life? Steve thinks to himself with good-natured resignation.

 

He takes a deep breath and gives the group a shaky smile. “Anytime you're ready!" Natasha shouts over the near-deafening roar.

 

“Yes ma’am,” Steve acknowledges as she drags Clint to his feet. She’s favoring her left leg and tries not to lean into him for support, but he slips his arm around her waist anyway. The sniper’s got a decent-size laceration across his upper forehead just below the hairline, causing the steady drip of blood over his browbone that gave Natasha such grief. Everyone is bruised, sore, bloody, and covered in ash and dirt. Steve’s eyes dwell on the battle-weary pair and not for the first time, ponders the miracle that is them among the constant violence they face.

 

He grips a metal beam to his left to steady himself as another blast jerks the whole plane sharply. “Dearly beloved," he begins, loudly but he's still barely audible. Over the harsh grind of the engine, sporadic rumbling of the continuous explosions below, and the scream of the wind, he might as well have whispered for all he was being heard.

 

Steve takes a deep breath and starts again. "Dearly beloved!" He puts everything he has into projecting his voice up and out, and the expectant faces of his friends finally begin to warm. "We gather today to bear witness to our colleagues, our teammates, and our friends as they join together in holy-"

 

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Tony's unmistakable tenor pierces the din. The plane pitches sharply to the right and they stumble to keep their footing. "Cocksucking piece of-"

 

"Stark!" Clint hollers. Natasha’s eyes narrow. If they weren’t already in serious danger of crashing into the Andes like a thousand-ton asteroid, he’d be worried for Stark’s life.

 

“You know, we can probably skip some of these…details, and just get to the action, I guess,” muttered Steve. “Clinton Barton, do you take Natasha Roman-“

 

Suddenly, a gust of wind erupts through the floor inches from Bruce’s foot. A hole the size of a basketball is blown through the bottom of the jet.  The doctor scrambles backward, eyes wide, and the entire group tenses. “Holy shit,” he pants.

 

A burst of gunfire rains seemingly from every angle. For the first time in longer than Clint can remember, he’s nervous. 

 

Steve rushes to the front of the jet and cranes his neck to see out of the front windshield. His hands clench into fists. “Two birds, one at six o’clock and one directly underneath. What we got for ammo? Launchers? Tell me something good, Stark, come on.”

 

Tony shoots him a withering look over his shoulder, gripping the controls so hard his knuckles were white. “Are you blind? This is a recon jet, not a combat fighter. Only thing it’s good for is finding the nearest Starbucks.”

 

Natasha’s finally had enough. She throws Clint off like a wet blanket and marches to the front of the jet. “Up,” she barks at Tony, who complies with an exasperated sigh. She immediately takes his place and draws the controls back evenly, tilting the nose up. The plane begins a steady ascent further into the sky.

 

Clint holds his breath as he slides into the co-pilot’s seat next to Natasha. He takes one long moment to drink in her beauty – when she’s in her element like this, she’s stunning. I love you. The thought comes boiling to the surface of his mind with fierce, breathtaking force. I love you so goddamn much.

 

“Marry me,” he’d said.

 

The memory was so vivid, he could smell the salty sea air and hear the gentle crash of the waves against wet sand. He remembered the heartbeats that punctuated the moments after the words had finally slipped out. The longest of his life. He’d half expected her to haul off and clock him one right across the face for even daring to ask. Or, ignore him altogether, make a beeline for the car and peel away, leaving him stranded.

 

Had it happened before? Yes it had. Let it never be said that Clint Barton didn’t learn from his mistakes.

 

Instead, Natasha had just raised one brow, the faintest hint of a smirk curving her lips. Like she’d just had been waiting for him to finally grow a pair and ask her, already. “Right now?” She turned back to the shoreline, tossing rocks into the foamy surf. “I haven’t a thing to wear,” she called lightly over her shoulder.

 

Clint closed his eyes against the heat of the Malibu sun. She was giving him an out, to make a joke and let the moment pass them by the way so many others had gone. He could. But this time, he refused.

 

“Today,” he replied evenly. “Tomorrow. Next week. Go pick out a white dress. Or don’t. We can go downtown to the city clerk’s office. Or Fury’s office. Or we can rent out Dodger Stadium. That’s my vote, in case we’re keeping track.” He got to his feet, dusting sand off of his shorts, and closed the distance between them. His intense gaze fixed upon her the entire time, she sensed the change in his demeanor. Natasha turned to face him. The mix of emotions on her face was unreadable, but he knew better.

 

Clint could never hope to understand the depth of the secrets she kept buried in her heart. And he was okay with that, because when he really looked in her eyes, he saw exactly what she did when she looked in his. He could trust her to show him what he needed to see.

 

He came to a stop a few inches from her where her toes were digging into the sand. “I don’t care how, or when, or where,” he continued softly. “The only thing I want out of it is you.”

 

He was terrified, but he’d already jumped; all that was left was the freefall. “You want me to stop, I will. Doesn’t change what I want. But you say the word, I’ll bottle it up and that’ll be the end of it. Just say so, and that’s that.”

 

So close to her now, he could pick out the shades of blue in her irises. I’ll never regret any of it, he thought to himself. I’m selfish and I don’t care. All the blood and screams that drove them to point their weapons at each other and count the heartbeats that followed. It is the deepest, reddest entry in his ledger, and the one he will never come close to paying off.

 

“What we do? It will never be simple. We won’t get the privilege of dying in a warm bed surrounded by thirty grandkids. I get that. If we’re lucky, really lucky, it’ll be quick and clean and there’ll be enough left to bury. And maybe that’s reason enough to…cut our losses. But I still believe we deserve one little kernel of happiness.”

 

Clint jammed his hands into his pockets so Natasha couldn’t see how tightly his fists were clenched. He focused his eyes on her lips, lush and perfect. The words that would fall from them. Would they break him?

 

“Yes.” Her voice was soft but it echoed through his body like he was hollow inside. “It was always yes, you idiot, you know that.” She buried her face in his sparse chest hair, shoulders shaking with gentle laughter.

 

It was as if the beaming California sun had taken up residence within his chest and he couldn’t help the goofy smile that spread across his face. Strong arms enfolded her as he drew her to him. “Now you tell me,” he chided.

 

They stood in the breaking surf, sea foam caressing their ankles, wrapped around each other.

 

Do people like them get second chances? Are they allowed to have things that they want?

 

They didn’t know, but after a lifetime’s worth of coincidences and right-place-right-time and skin-of-their-teeth, if anyone could find a way, they could.

 

*     *     *

 

The first time they tried to get married, a crazed seismologist tried to use underwater nuclear explosions to destroy the entire North American continent. Clint had had to rip the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket off so they wouldn’t catch in his bowstring; Natasha made fun of him for looking like a Chippendale.

  
The second time, twelve hours before the ceremony was to begin, they'd gotten pinned down outside of Berlin when their contact flipped on them and spent nearly seventy-two hours waiting for backup and extraction. In a clapboard shack that did nothing to block the icy winter wind, they huddled together under thin blankets and nearly froze to death.

 

The third time, Clint lost the rings.

 

Forget convincing Natasha to marry him, he’d thought to himself as he banged his head against the wall of HQ’s interfaith chapel and everyone else groaned and threw their hands in the air. Apparently it’s convincing the rest of the universe that was the real challenge.

 

Clint’s ears pop as his fiancée takes them ever higher into the sky. Her hands quiver as she grips the controls so hard they could snap in half.

 

It had been her idea to throw their plans out the window and take advantage of the next opportunity where they were together, conscious, and not engaged in active combat. Two out of three ain’t bad, Clint had mused to himself.

 

And really, there were worse places than aboard a Quinjet. Technically, it was an indoor affair so at least the weather wouldn’t be an issue.

 

It was then that they’d discovered that technically, Steve’s rank granted him the authority to conduct marriages. He made an offhand comment about a last-minute wedding at an army base that he’d been pulled into, and the rest was history.

 

“Rogers!” Clint calls over his shoulder. “You were saying?”

 

The roar of the wind is magnified by the repulsor blasts and crashes of thunder from Tony and Thor, who are standing precariously at the edge of the open hatch. They’re firing on the two combat fighters that are tailing them much more closely than anyone is comfortable with. Steve has to nearly scream to be heard. “Seriously? Hate to be a killjoy, Barton, but your timing’s shit.”

 

Clint smirks and gives a one-armed shrug. “Come on, the day’s a-wastin’. There’s a honeymoon suite in Cabo with our names on it.”

 

“We got ya covered back here,” Tony yells from the rear of the jet. “I’m with Hawkeye on this one. Now or never, Cap.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes. A wedding and a funeral in the same day, he remarks to himself dryly. “Fine. Dearly beloved, we gather here today-“

 

“I think we’re gonna have to skip to the good bits,” Natasha cuts in as the jet rolls hard to the right. She shoots an apologetic glance at Clint.

 

Steve wants to throw his hands in the air. “Do you, Natasha Romanoff, take Clint Barton to be your husband? Lawfully wedded, and all that?”

 

“I do,” she answers evenly, with no hesitation. She slides a hand towards Clint and their fingers entwine as she guides the jet through the smoky haze. The conviction in her voice sends a chill down Steve’s spine. “I promise to be your leap of faith. Your first and last resort. I vow to accept you as you are, and who you want to be. I will help you find the courage to live the life that you choose, and prove, every day, that you can be better, and stronger than what you’re afraid of. Because you are.”

 

Even with lightning renting the air and cracks of gunfire so loud they feel their teeth rattle, the silence is unmitigated. The rest of the team can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable, as though they’re witnessing something very intimate. And they are. It’s raw and open and honest and for the first time, they truly glimpse the depth of the connection between the two.

 

Natasha is unabashed, as though she hadn’t just bared her soul in front of them. She keeps her gaze fixed beyond the nose of the jet, but makes no move to let go of Clint’s steady grip.

 

A beat passes. Clint ticks his eyes back to Steve. The distant look that clouds his face gives away that the soldier’s mind is many miles (and years) from where they are. “Uh, not that I’m trying to rush anything-“

 

Steve blinks a couple of times, and startles. “Oh, right. Sorry. Clint Barton, do you take Natasha Romanoff to be your wife? Sick and healthy and poor and-“

 

“I do,” Clint cuts in softly. “Today and every day. I promise to love you no matter whose skin you put on, or what language comes from your lips, or what your name is. And at the end of the day, I’ll be here to anchor you to yourself. I’ll be your constant. And your best friend. You never have to explain to me why you need to be alone for awhile. You can spend as much time shooting stuff as you want. I’ll protect you and you can protect me and we’ll have each other’s back.”

 

Someone sniffles from behind Steve.

 

A whoop from Tony quickly reminds everyone that they’re still engaged in active combat. “One down!” he exclaims proudly. He points to where one of the enemy jets was spiraling downward, one wing engulfed in flames.

 

Steve turns back to the couple, and nods anxiously. “Okay, so by the power vested in me by…the United States Armed Forces, and SHIELD, and Nicholas Fury-“

 

“Point taken,” Clint interrupts nervously as a bolt of lightning flashes painfully close to the wing of the jet.

 

“-I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride. Oh, and you should put these on.” From some hidden pocket in his uniform he produces their wedding bands. Miraculously, they’d managed to remain intact through the entire shootout, and then some.

 

Clint kisses Natasha’s ring finger as he slides the simple, white-gold band past her knuckle. She returns the gesture by doing the same for him. It’s such a tender moment, and one they’ve been building up to for years.

 

“What Captain America has joined, let no man tear asunder,” Tony mutters as he fires another blast out of the rear of the jet.

 

A second explosion knocks them all off of their feet. Thor booms out, “Defeated!” The second plane careens past them in a chaotic fireball of black smoke and the smell of burning fuel follows.

 

Relief crosses every face inside the cabin of the Quinjet. Everyone, except for the two spies in the cockpit, kissing each other like it’s their last day on Earth.

 

_It’s a fight with two to one_

_Lay your money on the sun_

_Until you crash what have you done_

_Is there a better bet than love_

_What you are is what you breathe_

_You gotta cry before you sing_

 

*     *     *

 

“Clint. Stop it. You’re going to throw your back out.”

 

“I’m fine. Just let me do this, will you? Is that so much to ask, that I want to carry my bride over the threshold? Woman, you have no respect for tradition.”

 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Sure I do. As in, traditionally, you’re known for being mulishly stubborn, and I more or less respect that that will never change.”

 

Clint lifts her up in a princess carry, ignoring his screaming ribs and the Olympic-size bruise blossoming across his back, and tries to mask his discomfort as he manages to haul them through the doorway of their apartment. He only whacks Natasha’s head against the doorframe once, to his credit.

 

He sets her down in the kitchen, stumbling a little. Normally her weight is barely an effort for him, but with his injuries he’s not up to par. She gives him a wry look. “Is this the part where you joke about me letting myself go, now that we’re hitched?”

 

Clint smiles. “What, you mean like barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen? It’d be a good look for you.”

 

He sidles up to her, running the flat of his palm against her belly. He pauses there. Not now, he knows. Maybe, in their line of work, not ever. But the possibility is there, of watching her swell with their child, their baby, and for now that is enough.

 

The soft glide of her fingers skates along his jawbone. When he brings his eyes to hers, he’s breathless when he sees the sheer affection in them. Please, he thinks. If you look at me like that every day for the rest of our lives, I’ll want nothing more.

 

“Mrs. Barton,” he begins. He doesn’t miss how her eyebrows raise slightly, turning over the new title in her mind, trying it on. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

 

“Hungry?” she echoes. “I suppose it’s my job to cook you some three-course meal, huh.”

 

“I didn’t say what I was hungry for.” He reaches down under her ass, grabs her and hoists her onto the kitchen counter. He comes to stand between her spread knees. The electric crackle between them hums and Natasha’s pulse begins to race.

 

One rough, calloused finger traces a searing line down her throat, her collarbone, further south to the V of her shirt. One by one, the buttons of her shirt come undone and it falls open, revealing more flesh to his ravenous gaze. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.

 

Clint can’t help himself. There’ll be more time for teasing and drawn-out sensation later (so much time, the full weight of it expands before him, the horizon further than the eye can comprehend).

 

Her clothes drift to the floor, one by one, forgotten as soon as they leave her body. Natasha tugs his shirt over his head and drinks in the hard muscle of his torso. Mine, she thinks. Mine, because he wants to be, and for no other reason. The ache between her legs grows.

 

Clint kneels between her thighs, his rough fingers digging into her creamy flesh hard enough to bruise. She welcomes it, throws her head back and spreads her legs even wider.

 

He lets his eyes sweep hungrily over her and the sight alone will be branded into his mind until his last breath. She's wetter than he'd ever imagined was possible. She's leaning back against the kitchen cabinets, breasts thrust forward, ready and exposed and deceptively vulnerable. Clint knows better - it's him that's at her mercy, always has been.

 

He slides a finger, then another, inside her and the moan that escapes her throat is low, desperate, carnal. He pumps them slowly through the slickness inside her, then faster. She's got her head thrown back, panting hard, unintelligible things falling from her mouth. "Clint...oh, God," is all that resembles actual words.

 

He tests her with short, firm licks against her slick flesh. Long fingers slide into his hair, gripping tight, crossing the threshold into painful. "More," she groans. "Oh, fuck, Clint, please, just...more." He's gentle at first, treating her like the delicacy she is with long, indulgent strokes of his tongue caressing her. Then she's begging him to fuck her with his mouth. He's aiming to please, so with a smug half-smile he gives the lady what she's asking for.

 

Clint switches his attention to her clit without warning and she nearly rips off his scalp.

 

He continues his violent assault as she comes violently hard, nearly sobbing as the waves wrack her body. Clint's never allowed himself to own much but he proudly claims all that he sees before him. His masterpiece. All the little tells that he commits to memory - the way she bites her lip so hard there's the tiniest hint of blood on her teeth, how her peaches-and-cream complexion glows after she's had an orgasm.

 

He's all sensation now, dizzy, all action and reaction. As he rises to his feet, Natasha reaches for his belt, nearly ripping it off of him as she simultaneously pushes his jeans and boxers past his hips. Her warm hand grips him firmly, and he can’t stifle the hoarse moan that escapes his lips. A couple hard pumps and his dick is screaming to be somewhere warmer, tighter.

 

Clint grabs her hips and pulls her until her ass rests on the edge of the counter, and lines himself up against her entrance. She’s so wet she’s practically dripping. They spare a moment in their lust-fueled haze to meet each other’s eyes, and the same thought is evident in both.

 

They’ve been here before. How many times? They don’t know. It’s the first time, though, since they made a promise to each other in front of the closest thing they have to a family. Anyone who says that it’s just a piece of paper doesn’t understand what it’s like to have been found, after a lifetime of being lost.

 

Clint slides home in one agonizingly slow thrust. He leans down and drops slow kisses against her neck as he begins a delicious tempo; she rewards him with sounds that he’ll remember for the rest of his life. Of their life.

 

“God, you feel so good,” she pants, drawing him closer.

 

He speeds up their pace, knowing that this time probably won’t last as long as he would like but he can make up for it later. Over and over again.

 

Natasha slips a hand between them and rubs her clit, keeping her eyes fixed on Clint. She knows what she looks like, and it’s all for him.

 

Sweat begins to bead on his forehead as the effort of holding his orgasm back overwhelms him. A few more seconds, he coaches himself. “Mine,” he whispers, unaware that’s he’s speaking aloud. “You know that? Only I can do this for you. Make you fall apart, beg for me. It’s fucking gorgeous.”

 

A desperate cry rips from her throat, and she squeezes him tightly as her climax washes over her body. He follows right after, pumping hard as he fills her. They collapse in an exhausted heap against each other.

 

Clint pulls away and brushes one sweaty lock of hair away from Natasha’s face. He sees it now, the arrow at her throat, the pistol aimed at his forehead. A chance taken.

 

There is no such thing as a safe bet, not in their world or any other. They risk it all every day. The beauty of it? That they would settle for nothing less.

 

_Chances are the fascinations_

_Chances won’t escape from me_

_Chances are only what we make them_

_And all I need_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews/feedback/glowing praise makes me happy :)


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